


Cowboy Casanova

by dakiniten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Genderswap, is it slash if one of them is temporarily female?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakiniten/pseuds/dakiniten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam becomes collateral damage - sort of - as a result of Dean's porn-brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Genderswap, because I can't seem to stop writing it. Unbetaed, because I'm impatient. Title and inspiration from "Cowboy Casanova" by Carrie Underwood, although it doesn't really become clear until the second chapter. I got this part written and then got stuck, so I finally just started a second document and wrote the part that had actually sprung into my head. I've been informed that this is called "wearing the ugly shirt," in which you tell the fic to get over itself and just do something, already. Thanks to byaghro for cheerleading me through it. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I'm so sick of looking at it at this point that I've pretty much given up trying to mold it into what I wanted. I don't own anything, no money being made, I'm just playing in the sandbox.

“Would it kill you to keep your mind out of the gutter for an hour? Just an hour. You know, while we’re trying to interview a _telepath._ ” Sam shucked his suit jacket with a little more force than was absolutely necessary, tossing it haphazardly onto his bed.

“If she doesn’t want to listen to people thinking dirty thoughts about her, she needs to rethink her wardrobe. She was dressed like a belly dancer, for crying out loud.” Dean seemed supremely unconcerned with Sam’s frustration. Sam nearly choked himself snatching off his tie.

“Are you hearing yourself? That sounded an awful lot like ‘she was asking for it,’ Dean, and you know what kind of people think like that?” Sam recognized that his voice was taking on a hysterical edge, but really, Dean was way out of line and Sam was getting tired of it.

The telepath in question, Lydia, had been a very nice young woman. Sam had sent Dean to the car so he would stop offending her, and spent another few minutes apologizing for his brother’s behavior. He’d given her his card and asked her to call if she thought of anything that might help with the case. He shook her hand as he went to leave and she held it, looking him in the eye for a moment before releasing him. She’d asked him not to take it personally, and he’d told her he didn’t – he understood. It wasn’t him, it was Dean, and he couldn’t fault her for not wanting to listen to his perverted thoughts anymore. Sam was confident they wouldn’t hear from her.

“Whatever, Samantha, untwist your panties. I’m going to grab a shower, then I’m going to hit the bar. Don’t wait up.” Flashing him an infuriating smirk, Dean brushed past Sam and into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later Dean was out the door. Sam tried to do some more research, but there really wasn’t anything to be found on this case. Maybe it was just an inordinate number of missing persons; maybe there was nothing supernatural going on at all. In any case, they’d been in town for two weeks and were no closer to finding anything. Finally giving up his thusfar futile search, Sam decided it wouldn’t hurt to take a night off and have a few drinks himself.

* * *

After about ten minutes of staring into the bathroom mirror, Sam decided that he should probably put some clothes on. Or at least a towel. He was still dripping, but he had become completely absorbed in his reflection. But this wasn’t vanity. It was more like shock. At some point during his shower he had apparently gone from being Sam Winchester to being…well, to being a girl. Not just a female version of himself – which he would have handled a little better, he thought – but a completely other, _female_ person. This new form was short, slender, and aside from the shaggy brown hair and familiar hazel eyes, it bore no resemblance to the body Sam had inhabited his whole life.

The ringing of his cell phone pulled Sam from his reverie, and he quickly wrapped a towel around himself and went to grab it. He didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, which was probably a good thing since anyone he knew wouldn’t believe the girl’s voice answering was really him.

“Hello?” Sam was pleased that his new voice was low and smooth, only a little higher than his real voice.

“Hi Sam, it’s Lydia. I assume Dean isn’t there.”

“No, he--”

“Did he take the car?”

“What? No, but why--”

“Come back over to the shop. I’ll explain there.” A pause. “Your man-clothes will be fine for the ride over. You should be about my size now, I’ll find you something that fits better.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!” Sam stomped his foot on the last word, surprising himself. He knew he sounded petulant, but he had never actually stomped his foot in a fit of pique. Dean would never have let him live it down, would have ridiculed him mercilessly about being such a – oh. Well.

“Fine. Just because my shop is crammed full of New Age razzle-dazzle junk doesn’t mean that there isn’t real magic at work underneath, Sam. I thought hunters understood that things aren’t always what they seem.” There were rustling sounds on the other end that Sam assumed meant Lydia really was looking for clothes for him. Probably not a bad idea – he was pretty sure this body would be swallowed whole by his own clothes. He could probably wear a t-shirt belted at the waist as a dress. You know, if he were inclined to wear dresses. Which he wasn’t. “Anyhow, you and your brother are both in a state of denial that I didn’t think humanly possible, not to mention that your brother is a fucking pig, so I figured I’d kill several birds with one stone, as it were.”

“You turned me into a girl because my brother’s a pig? That isn’t _fair!_ I didn’t do anything to deserve this!” Sam whined, barely managing to stop himself from stomping his foot again. He flopped backward onto his bed, surprised at the air he caught when his smaller, lighter frame bounced off the cheap mattress.

“Will you let me finish? It isn’t meant to punish you, and like I said before, it isn’t anything personal against you. Plus, it’s reversible, and that’s the whole point – the lesson is in the reversal process.” There was a triumphant cry as she found whatever she had been looking for. “Now, do you want me to explain, or do you want to try to figure it out on your own?”

“You’re the Trickster.” Damn it all. That probably explained the unusually large number of missing people around here. Who knew what the Trickster had done to them? Sam really hated dealing with this guy.

“No, I’m not. Somewhat similar, I guess, but not the same. I’m actually trying to help, not just screwing with you because it amuses me. Now, I’m going to bring these clothes to you, and I’d really rather you didn’t try to kill me.” And with that the line went dead. 

Sam considered the situation for a moment. Neither he nor Dean were dead, missing, or grievously injured. He was stuck in a girl’s body, but not permanently. There was a lesson in this for him and Dean, which would be learned during the process of getting him back into his rightful body. It sucked being in a different skin, and Dean would probably be downright giddy with the ammunition this would give him for years to come, but all in all it could be a whole lot worse. He decided to go with it – just this once – and if things started going south then he knew where to find the source of the trouble.

* * *

It was quite a relief to find that Lydia’s taste in clothes was not limited to the style she wore while on the clock. Shortly after her arrival at the motel, she had outfitted Sam in what he came to think of as Normal Girl Clothes. Blue jeans, sneakers, boy-style sleeveless undershirt. She even brought underthings that still had tags on, because other people’s clothes and other people’s underwear are two completely different animals – her words. Everything was a little on the snug side, and the shirt was a bit low-cut for Sam’s taste, but everything was comfortable and not embarassingly immodest.

“What are you, Amish? Who even uses that word anymore?” She’d laughed at him as he studied his reflection, tugging at the neckline of his shirt in an attempt to hide his newfound cleavage. She managed not to roll her eyes _too_ hard as she dug into the bag she’d brought, pulling out a plaid flannel overshirt and tossing it at Sam’s head. He managed to duck out of the way and catch the flying garment. At least his ratio of height to reach was still proportionate, even if both were a good deal shorter now. The shirt would be big on him now, but it was still smaller than his own clothes.

“So you have everything in the right size except an overshirt? Weak. What kind of magical being are you?” He managed to tease a bit as he slid on the shirt, but was perplexed when he found there were no buttons.

“The kind who apparently understands humans better than you. It isn’t supposed to fit well, it’s supposed to look like you snagged it from your boyfriend. And it’s meant to hang open, so stop fidgeting with it.”

“My boyfriend who doesn’t know that Kurt Cobain is dead?” Sam wrinkled his nose a little at the yellow-white-blue pattern.

“Ex-boyfriend, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tries to get used to his girlsuit, and Dean is...well, Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The OFC is actually a tribute to a friend of mine of the same name, description, and employment. I always worry that my OCs are Sue-ish, but I needed her for this particular scene. This is the part that had actually sprung into my head, although I was tearing my hair out trying to get it down, until I finally gave up trying to make it beautiful and just wrestled the thing into print. I thought about writing a sequel, wherein Sam gets his real body back and there is incestuous boysex. I haven't decided yet. Maybe once I've gotten over how frustrated I became working on this fic.

“Hey, sweetie, what can I get for you?” The bartender greeted Sam cheerfully as he settled onto the corner stool. She was tall and well built, what some would call a handsome woman, with thick dark hair and a quick, bright smile and laughing eyes. She mixed drinks with impressive speed and efficiency – she didn’t even have to watch what she was doing, her hands seemed to work quite independently from the rest of her. Sam had sized her up in a moment, decided he rather liked her, and offered a small, grateful smile in return.

“Bottle of Bud Light, please.” He smiled again when she slid the opened bottle to him, lifted it in salute before taking a long draft…and nearly choking at the overwhelming bitterness. He managed not to spew beer all over the bartop. It was a near thing. He forced himself to swallow the disgusting brew, and studied the bottle in his hand as if the label were printed in Klingon. The bartender stopped in front of him, quirking an eyebrow. “I, uh, I’m not sure what’s wrong with me tonight. I usually like it.” Sam floundered for an explanation for his behavior. He was sure he’d just made the world’s worst bitter beer face.

“Maybe you just aren’t in a beer kind of mood. Want me to mix you up something fruity? I won’t charge you for the brew,” the bartender offered. _Bless her._ Sam nodded sheepishly.

He’d managed to overcome the weirdness of his predicament – being suddenly transformed into a girl by a playful demigoddess – before he left the hotel, but coming to terms with wearing a girlsuit was apparently not the half of it. It occurred to him that this body was not his, it was some random form pulled from the Ether or whatever, and it seemed to have likes and dislikes completely separate from his own. Sam Winchester liked the taste of beer, and would have been at least moderately attracted to the kind bartender. This new body all but _retched_ at the taste of beer, and was not interested in said bartender in the slightest. The disconnect between mind and body was more than a little strange. He probably could have forced himself to finish the offending beverage, to prove a point, but to whom? It hardly mattered to anyone else.

“Here you go, hon. This is an original creation of mine. Tell me what you think.” Sam took a small sip of the cloudy purple concoction before him. _Too sweet, far too sweet, too many flavors,_ his brain noted, while his tongue exploded in a million little tastebud-orgasms screaming _I could drink this forever._ This treacherous body ignored his brain, his eyelids fluttered and his throated thrummed with a pleased sigh-moan-purr sound he couldn’t choke back. The bartender smiled. “Glad you like it. I’m Christy, you just holler for me if you need anything. And don’t drink it too fast, it’s stronger than it tastes. No telling who you might go home with if you’re not careful.”

“Christy, you wound me,” came a familiar voice from way too close behind Sam. It was Dean, he knew it was Dean, but he refrained from turning to look at him because he was still taking stock of himself. Dean’s voice had the same snakecharmer timbre it always did when he was talking to an attractive woman, only now that Sam _was_ a woman – well, was in a woman’s body, what _ever_ – Dean’s voice sent phantom fingers ghosting down his spine, making him squirm in his seat and sit up a little straighter. _Weird._ Dean was obviously waiting to be acknowledged, standing at the bar next to Sam, silent. Sam turned to look at his brother.

“I wasn’t talking about you in particular, but I probably should. Will you be a sweetheart and get us some music going? Jimmy’s been eyeballing the jukebox for ten minutes and if I have to listen to ‘The Perfect Country & Western Song’ on repeat all goddamn night I’m going to be mighty unpleasant.” Christy smiled sweetly as she fished a five dollar bill out of her tip jar and pushed it across the bartop to Dean. He smiled right back, more fond than flirty, then gave Sam a wink before heading for the aforementioned jukebox. 

Sam watched him saunter over like he owned the place, _as usual,_ then feed in the money and lean over to check out the selection, one hand on either side of the display glass. Sam couldn’t stop his eyes from dragging over the line of Dean’s shoulders, the way his fingers curled over the frame, how fantastic his ass looked in those jeans – _are you fucking serious?_ cried his brain, prisoner in a foreign land. But he couldn’t stop looking, and couldn’t stop the bizarre feeling of a coil wound too tight that was starting in some mysterious place low in his gut. It wasn’t his…well, you know, _girl parts,_ at least he didn’t think so, but understanding the patterns of female arousal and experiencing them first-hand were not the same thing, so maybe. _Fuck._

“He sure looks like a cool drink of water, don’t he?” Christy asked conspirationally. Sam blinked a few times, shook his head to clear the remaining fog, and turned back to face the bar. Christy looked far more amused than she probably should. “Our resident Casanova. My advice, not that you’re required or even likely to take it, is to run for your life.” With that, she cleared away the abandoned beer bottle and went to tend to her other customers further down the bar.

Sam contemplated the wisdom in her advice while sipping his drink. And then he heard the first strains of “Ramblin’ Man,” and decided intervention was necessary. He listened to Dean’s music any time they were in the car, he most certainly wasn’t going to listen to it all night here. Rolling his eyes and saying a silent prayer for strength, he slid off the bar stool and headed for the jukebox.

“Step aside, cowboy,” Sam drawled as he bumped his hip against Dean’s and peered at the music selection. _It’s like being possessed,_ he thought wildly, completely horrified at the way this body was saying and doing and _feeling_ things that Sam would never do if he were in complete control. Dean turned to face him, giving him a little space in front of the jukebox but not nearly enough for Sam to be comfortable. Sam could feel Dean looking at him, knew the exact expression he’d see on Dean’s face if he just turned his head. But again, apparently he was just along for the ride, an observer as someone else pulled the marionette’s strings, because his head tipped back of its own volition and he couldn’t help staring at Dean. Sam almost expected him to say _welcome to my parlor,_ but the look on his face really said it for him. Sam got the distinct impression he was about to be eaten alive. Unfortunately, this body either had no survival instinct at all or chicks were _freaking insane,_ because instead of a rush of adrenaline preparing him to run like hell, Sam just felt tingly in his fingers and toes and _nipples, what the fuck._

“Not a fan of The Allman Brothers?” Dean was smirking, the smug bastard. Sam managed to get a handle on himself, finally, and turned back to look at the song listing.

“I just get sick of listening to someone else’s music. There’s got to be something I like here.” Cash, Coe, Seger, Skynyrd, Stones…oh come _on._ Can’t a guy catch a break just _once?_

“Oh, I’m sure we can find something you like.” The rumble of Dean’s voice sounded a little like the Impala idling, and apparently hearing one and thinking of the other did even more weird shit to this alien body Sam was trapped in. He tried to ignore the feeling of static electricity in his veins as Dean waited for Sam to respond. Which Sam was _damn_ sure not going to do. The silence between them yawned, stretched...but then Dean switched gears. “Or, you know, maybe not. My name’s Dean, by the way. Nice to meet you,” he said brightly, extending his hand. Sam had not really scripted how, or even if, he was going to explain his predicament to Dean, and now here he was all sultry smile and bedroom eyes and waiting for Sam to return the courtesy of introducing himself.

“Sam,” he managed to mumble. He gave Dean a firm handshake, which was really a joke because his hand was so small and delicate and his fingernails were painted – dark blue, to match the blue in the overshirt, it hadn’t seemed so ridiculous at the hotel – for crying out loud. Turning back to the jukebox, Sam spotted a group of albums that seemed to be hiding in the back and almost laughed with relief. He punched in the codes for his chosen songs quickly, then downed the rest of his fruity purple girly drink. He handed the glass to Dean. “You should buy me another one of those.” Then he turned around and went back to his seat at the bar, noting that the alcohol was hard at work oiling his joints because he could feel a definite swish in his hips that reminded him of Jessica Rabbit. He would have tried to correct it, if not for the endless amusement he gleaned from imagining the look on Dean’s face – because he was sure Dean was watching him walk away.

He wasn’t wrong. He glanced back at Dean as he climbed onto the bar stool, and his brother was still standing by the jukebox, holding a glass of ice and looking positively mesmerized. Sam did his best impression of a come-hither smile…and was further surprised when it seemed to work. Within moments, Dean was pulling up a stool next to him and flagging down the bartender.

“Another…whatever this was,” Dean set the glass on the bar, along with his own empty bottle, “two shots of tequila and another beer, please.”

“Coming right up,” Christy responded, dumping the ice and pulling down a clean glass to mix a fresh drink. Sam watched closely as she measured half-shots of just about every flavored liquor she had into his cup, followed by no less than three kinds of juice and something that looked like cherry syrup. _Sugar on ice,_ Sam thought. Then the finished product was before him, and he sipped it while Christy poured the shots and opened Dean’s beer. She even brought a salt shaker and lime wedges, bless her. Dean pushed one shot glass over to Sam and took one for himself.

“What are we drinking to?” Dean asked, then licked his wrist and poured salt on it. The grains stuck to the wet stripe of skin. Sam managed to suppress a shiver, but not the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. _Oh, I am so fucked._ Sam didn’t usually drink liquor, and tequila shots were a bad idea even in his real body – when he knew his limits – so tequila shots on top of mixed drinks in a body half his normal size whose metabolism was a mystery to him was like, the worst idea in the history of mankind. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do it, but at least he did recognize the stupidity.

“Bad ideas,” was what finally came out. Sam mimicked Dean’s motion, salting his wrist, then held up his shot to toast. Dean’s grin was half amused and half something else, but he clinked his glass against Sam’s without a word and they both went through the progression of salt-tequila-lime.

* * *

One round of tequila shots had swiftly turned into four, with Sam nursing his Liquid Diabetes (as he’d begun to think of it) in between. Then when he insisted he couldn’t drink any more or he really was going to hurl, Dean somehow talked him into a game of pool. Which Sam had won. He won the next three, too. Dean wasn’t really hustling, not the way he did when there was money at stake, but Sam knew he wasn’t playing at full strength, either.

“Okay, that’s it. You’re insulting my intelligence and my skill, here, dude. Will you quit sandbagging if we place bets?” Sam dug a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it at Dean. “Twenty bucks says you couldn’t beat me if you tried.”

“You’re on,” was Dean’s response, along with a toothy grin. Sam could tell the difference immediately. Dean was playing a serious game, pulling no punches and putting all his effort into winning. Unfortunately for him, Sam was also on his A-game, with the added benefit of having cleavage with which to distract Dean during big shots. Sam’s win was epic – he was slightly drunk with it.

“Good thing we weren’t playing for assholes, huh?” Sam teased, leaning a little too far into Dean’s personal space as he reached around him to collect his winnings. All the alcohol caught up to him in a rush, though, and he overbalanced and stumbled against the wall of his brother’s chest. Dean’s hands were on him in an instant, steadying him, and he felt scalded every place their bodies touched. His brain was screaming _danger, danger Sam Winchester,_ even as he turned his head…and then even that mental shrieking was silent, because looking into the startling green of Dean’s eyes paralyzed him and everything else fell away. Sam could feel the intensity of that gaze like constricting steel bands around his heart. That coil wound too tight feeling was back, magnified a thousand times, but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop it as he watched his brother lean down to kiss him, and his eyes closed of their own accord. But that only amplified his other senses, so when their lips touched Sam could feel every molecule of Dean – soft, moist lips, followed by smooth, hot tongue that still held a faint tang of lime, wave after wave of body heat, his own pulse racing like hoofbeats over static, and Sam was drowning in the smell of leather and soap and _Dean._ But then the lips were gone, and Sam managed to force his eyes open again.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean murmured, causing Sam’s pulse to trip-skip-stutter as he tried to regain his balance and his bearings. The body was still in control, though, because he felt himself nodding instead of saying _absolutely not_ like he knew he should. But then Dean was taking out his phone and making a call, and Sam must have looked puzzled because Dean offered by way of explanation, “Gotta make sure the coast is clear.” Sam’s heart all but stopped and he cringed as he heard his own phone ringing merrily in his pocket. He pulled the phone out and looked at it for a moment, drafting a rough outline of how the _hell_ he was going to explain this, before sending Dean’s call to voicemail. He didn’t even want to see how his brother was looking at him, so he focused on the pool table instead.

“So, um, funny story about the telepath from earlier. Turns out she’s not just a telepath – in fact, she’s not human at all. She’s a dakini, and thought that our path to enlightenment could be expedited by turning me into a girl.” Sam was very proud that his voice held steady as he recited his impromptu _my leet research skills, let me show you them_ spiel. He could feel Dean’s glare burning a hole through him. A shiver rippled through him and he tried to concentrate on breathing normally.

“Sam.” It was a death sentence. Only Dean fucking Winchester could make a name sound like impending doom, but there it was. _Shit._ Sam definitely couldn’t best Dean in a physical altercation in this form, and now that he knew it was Sam the Don’t Hit Girls rule probably wouldn’t apply. Sam began frantically scanning for the closest exit. “Oh for fuck’s sake Sammy, stop being such a girl. Well, you know what I mean. Don’t go all emo. We’ll get it straightened out.” _Wait, what?_ Sam ventured a peek at Dean’s face, and found it much more…relaxed than he expected. He threw up his hands.

“How do you just take something like this in stride? I’ve been turned into a _girl,_ Dean, and in case you forgot, you _kissed_ me and were about to…to… _whatever,_ and it doesn’t even faze you? Seriously? Because I’m kinda freaking out.” It was the most Sam-brain had been able to say all night without the girl hormones blocking the important bits.

“You kissed me back,” Dean murmured, like that was any kind of answer to anything. And yeah, okay, so Sam had kissed him back, but it was this bizarre _body_ reacting to everything Dean said and did and _was._ That had to be it, right? _Please let that be it._

“I’m not in complete control, here. This form is missing a few filters between instinct and action, or something. I don’t know.” Letting out a frustrated huff, Sam ran his hands through his hair and glared at the ceiling like it was hiding the solution to this clusterfuck. He missed the amusement on Dean’s face, but heard it well enough.

“So you’re saying that your instinct is to kiss me.”

“That’s not--! Can we just focus on figuring out how to turn me back, please?” Because if Sam was really honest with himself…yeah, maybe he did have some thoughts and feelings about his brother that were way beyond fraternal. Maybe he did sometimes get jealous when Dean literally charmed the panties off some greasy spoon waitress, or when he sat right across from Sam and proceeded to eyefuck anything with tits and a pulse. But until now Sam had done a damn fine job of cramming those impulses back down into the Pandora’s box of things better left unexamined. Repression was working out pretty well, wasn’t it? Things were great. Well, maybe not great, but it was better than fantasizing about fucking your brother. Right? Because that could only lead to awkwardness and ass-kicking.

“I am focused. I’m assuming that the way to turn you back is to realize whatever fundamental truth we’re supposedly missing, yeah?” Surprisingly, Sam couldn’t argue with his logic. “So maybe you’re supposed to stop overthinking this. Maybe this body is wired straight into your subconcious, and bypassed your morality filters altogether. You could probably override it if you really tried, but why would you want to?” Dean was leaning entirely too close, and then his hands were settling on Sam’s hips. Sam felt his blood thrumming like low-voltage electricity. “At the risk of turning this into a chick flick moment, I have to ask… You got something you wanna tell me?” Dean’s thumbs had found their way under the hem of Sam’s shirt and were tracing the curve of his hips, and it was really fucking difficult to concentrate with that going on. For the first time this evening, though, he could tell that the girlsuit was off autopilot and he was calling the shots. And as surreal as the suggestion – hell, the _situation_ – seemed to be, it did tie up all the loose ends that Sam had been fretting over. _Oh, what the hell. I’m done angsting about this. If he was going to kick my ass, he would’ve done it already. Suck it up, Winchester. This is really happening._

“Nah, I think you’ve got it figured out. Unless you just want to wax poetic about our _feelings_ …” Sam fluttered his eyelashes and laid a hand over his heart, swooning a little. Dean grimaced.

“Okay, point taken. Stop making that face, it’s creeping me out.” Dean snaked an arm around Sam’s waist and guided him toward the door. “So is that a rental, or is there a girl in a Sam suit somewhere out there?” Sam couldn’t decide whether the wording was amusing or distasteful. He opted for a mix of the two.

“It’s a ‘rental,’ I guess. It didn’t have a consciousness before I got dumped in it. When I get my body back, it should be a clean switch, and I guess this one will just…cease to be.” The door swung shut behind them as they fell into step, headed in the direction of the hotel. Dean’s grin was wolfish as he squeezed Sam’s hip.

“Don’t suppose you’d be interested in a test drive before you switch back? No point wasting the capacity for multiple orgasms while you’ve got it.” Sam almost tripped over his own feet when Dean goosed him, letting out a scandalized sound and blushing to the roots of his hair. Dean just chuckled, and somehow even that sounded suggestive and filthy and _hot._

The bar hadn’t seemed that far away earlier in the evening. Now, buzzed and increasingly aroused and twisted up in one another, the brothers Winchester simply couldn’t get back to their room fast enough. But then, thought Sam, they’d waited this long – what’s another ten minutes?


End file.
